“Oh-no-no-no—” Saffy flapped a hand for silence, smiling as she lifted a finger to her lips. “Shh, Lucy dear. Not forme,certainly not. I keep them for the girls.”
“Oh.” Lucy was visibly relieved. “Well, that’s different, isn’t it. I wouldn’t like to think of Himself”—her eyes raised reverentially towards the ceiling—“being upset, even now.”
Saffy agreed. “The last thing we need tonight is Daddy turning in his grave.” She nodded at the first-aid box. “Pass me a couple of aspirin, will you?”
Lucy’s brow rumpled with concern. “Are you unwell?”
“It’s the girls. They’re nervous, poor darlings, and nothing smoothes a frazzled temperament quite like aspirin, except perhaps a sharp swig of gin, but that would be rather irresponsible.” Saffy used the back of a teaspoon to grind the tablets to powder. “You know, I haven’t seen them so bad since the raid on May the tenth.”
Lucy paled. “You don’t think they sense a fresh wave of bombers?”
“I shouldn’t think so. Mr. Hitler’s far too busy marching into winter to trouble much about us. At least, that’s what Percy says. According to her, we should be left alone until Christmas at least; she’s terribly disappointed.” Saffy was still stirring the fishy concoction and had drawn breath to go on when she noticed that Lucy had moved away to the stove. Her posture gave no indication that she was listening anymore and all of a sudden Saffy felt silly, like one of her hens when they were in the mood for clucking and the garden gate would do for company. After an embarrassed little cough she said, “Anyway, I’m prattling. You didn’t come to the kitchen to hear about the girls and I’m keeping you from whatever it was you were doing.”
“Not at all.” Lucy closed the range door and stood tall, but her cheeks were a deeper pink than the oven alone might cause and Saffy knew that she hadn’t imagined the previous moment’s discomfort; something she’d said or done had spoiled Lucy’s good humor and she felt beastly about it. “I was coming to check on the rabbit pie,” Lucy continued, “which I’ve now done, and to let you know that I didn’t find the silver serving spoon you wanted but I’ve put another at table that should do just as well. I’ve also brought down some of the records Miss Juniper sent back from London.”
“To the blue parlor?”
“Of course.”
“Perfect.” It was the good parlor, and therefore they would entertain Mr. Cavill there. Percy had disagreed, but that was to be expected. She’d been in a temper for weeks, stomping along the corridors, forecasting doom and gloom about the coming winter, grumbling about the shortage of fuel, the extravagance of heating another room when the yellow parlor was already warmed daily. But Percy would come round; she always did. Saffy tapped the fork on the side of the bowl with determination.
“You did very well with your custard. It’s lovely and thick, even without the milk.” Lucy was peeping beneath the saucepan lid.
“Oh, Lucy, you’re a darling. I made it with water in the end, a little honey as sweetener so I could save my sugar for marmalade. I never thought I’d thank the war for anything, but I wonder that I might have lived my entire life without knowing the satisfaction of creating the perfect milkless custard!”
“There’s many in London would be grateful for the recipe. My cousin writes that they’re down to two pints each a week. Can you imagine? You ought to jot down the steps to your custard in a letter and send it to theDaily Telegraph. They publish them, you know.”
“I didn’t know,” said Saffy thoughtfully. It would be another publication to add to her little collection. Not a particularly salubrious addition, but a clipping nonetheless. It would all help when the time came to send off her manuscript, and who knew what else might come of it? Saffy quite liked the idea of a regular little column, “Sew-a-lot Saffy’s Advice to Ladies” or some such, a small illustrated emblem in the corner—her Singer 201K, or even one of her hens! She smiled, as pleased and amused by the fantasy as if it were a fait accompli.
Lucy, meanwhile, was still talking about her cousin in Pimlico and the single egg they were allowed each fortnight. “Hers was rotten the other week, and can you imagine—they wouldn’t replace it for her.”
“But that’s just mean spirited!” Saffy was aghast. Sew-a-lot Saffy, she suspected, would have much to say on such matters and wouldn’t be afraid to make magnanimous gestures of her own as recompense. “Why, you must send her some of mine. And take half a dozen for yourself.”
Lucy’s expression could not have been more delighted had Saffy begun handing out lumps of solid gold, and Saffy felt embarrassed suddenly, forcing the specter of her newspaper doppelgänger to dissolve. It was with an air of apology that she said, “We’ve more eggs than we can eat, and I’ve been looking for a way to show you my gratitude—you’ve come to my aid so often since the war began.”
“Oh, Miss Saffy.”
“Let’s not forget I’d still be laundering in caster sugar if it weren’t for you.”
Lucy laughed and said, “Well, thank you kindly. I accept your offer most gratefully.”
They started wrapping the eggs together, tearing small squares from the salvaged newspapers stacked by the stove, and Saffy thought for the hundredth time that day how much she enjoyed their former housekeeper’s company and how unfortunate it was that they’d lost her. When she moved into the flatlet, Saffy decided, Lucy should be given the address and encouraged to call for tea whenever she came up to London. Percy would no doubt have something to say about that—she had rather traditional ideas about the classes and their intermingling—but Saffy knew better: companions were to be valued, wherever one found them.
A grumble of thunder menaced from outside and Lucy ducked her head to spy through the grimy windowpane above the small sink. She took in the darkening sky and frowned. “If there’s nothing else, Miss Saffy, I’ll finish up in the parlor and be on my way. The weather looks like settling in and I’ve a meeting to attend this evening.”
“WVS is it?”
“Canteen tonight. Got to keep those brave soldiers fed.”
“That we do,” Saffy said. “Speaking of which, I’ve stitched some children’s dollies for your fund-raising auction. Take them tonight if you’re able: they’re upstairs, as is”—a pause for theatrical effect—“the Dress.”
Lucy gasped and her voice dropped to a whisper, even though they were alone. “You finished it!”
“Just in time for Juniper to wear tonight. I’ve hung it in the attic so it’s the first thing she sees.”
“Then I shall certainly pop upstairs before I go. Tell me—is it beautiful?”
“It’s divine.”
